


Cursed Ones

by TheThirdAmell



Series: Accursed Ones [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Humor, Nature of the Beast - Freeform, Reimagined, Werewolves, What if Someone Got Bit?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdAmell/pseuds/TheThirdAmell
Summary: "The only way to protect against the werewolf curse is not to be bitten. If you have been infected, you will know within a matter of days. You will begin to sweat and vomit and, most tellingly, your temper will become wild and uncontrollable. If that happens to you, you should seek out Witherfang even more swiftly. Your mission at that point will be rather… personal."
Relationships: Alistair/Leliana (Dragon Age)
Series: Accursed Ones [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/264574
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	Cursed Ones

9:30 Dragon  
Brecilian Forest

"What are the odds the Dalish would have their own troubles?" Alistair wondered aloud to no one in particular. "I mean really, werewolves? Couldn't they have been plagued by werebunnies or something?"

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to be fighting bunnies," Leliana protested, leather clad fingers tapping thoughtfully at her longbow for a more suitable target. "Maybe wererats?" 

“Or werenugs?” Alistair teased.

“Oh, do not be cruel!” Leliana gave him an ineffectual push, “Werespiders though-” 

“ _Where_ the fuck are we going?” Oghren interjected, calling up ahead to where Amell led the way through the woods with Barkspawn. “Boss, are we really trusting the mutt to get us through this sodding forest?”

“We’re trusting Morrigan to get us through the forest,” Amell corrected him, but between the two, Alistair would pick the dog every time. “We’re trusting Barkspawn to get us to the werewolves. He was a tracker at Ostagar.” Amell gave the mabari a pat, and was rewarded with an affectionate bark from the dog and a suspicious grunt from the dwarf.

“Cheer up, Oghren,” Alistair said. “This forest isn’t so bad.”

“It’s beautiful,” Leliana agreed, stepping over a fallen log painted with moss a brilliant shade of emerald. The sunlight that made it through the forest canopy was tinted to match, a vibrant contrast to auburn hair and compliment to sapphire eyes. 

“It really is,” Alistair agreed.

"Speak for yourself," Oghren grunted, scrambling over the same log. It splintered beneath his foot, vomiting up all manner of insects that had taken residence within. "Damned unnatural is what it is." 

"I don't think it gets more natural than this,"Alistair said, dodging the stampede of bugs the man had unleashed.

"Good hard stone is what’s natural," Oghren grumbled, shaking moss off his boot, "All this greenery is making me sick." 

"It could be worse,” Alistair said, “It could be haunted.” 

For all the Dalish had hyped the horrors of the woods, they'd yet to encounter anything more dangerous than the occasional wolf or bear, neither of which had any 'were' qualities that he'd noticed. At this rate, Alistair was beginning to doubt they’d ever encounter any werewolves, let alone Witherfang. 

"Haunted?" Oghren squeaked. 

"Oh, yes," Leliana chimed in, "People have always spoken of dark and mysterious woods, haunted by unseen things. The Brecilian Forest is actually one such forest. They say the Veil is thin here, and spirits from the Fade pass over, drifting through the trees and giving them an unnatural and sinister intelligence." 

"Intelligence?" Oghren repeated, shuffling away from one tree only to jump when he hit another, "Like, uh, like they're alive?"

"They're called sylvans," Amell elaborated, "And your ax is more than enough to fell them."

Oghren scurried up to the front of their procession to join Amell and his assurances. Leliana snapped off a small branch from a nearby shrub and hurried after him. “You know Oghren, it is said, if you feel you are being watched in the Brecilian Forest, you are!" 

Leliana swished the branch across the back of Oghren's neck and the dwarf shrieked, leaping to the height of a human, “Son of a motherless bronto, woman, what’s wrong with you?” 

“Oh, I am sorry, I was having you on,” Leliana laughed, “It is just a story, Oghren.”

“With enough truth to it,” Amell said, “The Veil is thin here. We should make camp. It’s getting dark; Morrigan should be back soon with a bird’s eye view of the forest.”

“Finally,” Alistair dropped his pack, and the others fast followed suit. A mind blast from Amell cleared away the detritus and underbrush, and they set about making camp.

Beautiful it may have been, it was slow going through the forest. The ground was made of cliffs and chasms, twisted together with brooks that made it almost impassable. Add in the fact that most of them were wearing silverite, and suddenly having Barkspawn as a tracker didn’t matter so much when they couldn’t follow where he tracked. “Do we really have to go hunt werewolves?” Alistair asked, taking a seat at the fire when he finished lighting it. “Isn’t there some other Dalish clan we can recruit? Surely the treaties apply to all of them?” 

“I think we would have a bit of trouble,” Leliana said, taking a seat at his side, “Everything I’ve heard has led me to believe the Dalish would be much harder to find. I think this clan let us find them because they needed help. We may not get so lucky again.”

“We can’t risk it, Alistair,” Amell said, joining them. “They’ll contact the other clans for us once we kill Witherfang for them.”

“It’s never that easy,” Alistair said. “What do we even know about the Dalish?” 

"I know a little. Did you want me to start from the beginning?” Leliana asked.

“It usually makes more sense than the middle,” Alistair joked. 

“The elves gained their freedom from the Tevinter Imperium. When Andraste began Her Exalted March against the Imperium, the elves joined Her cause to fight their masters. The great elven leader, Shartan, born in captivity, rose up to lead his people. He foresaw a future where the elves were free.

“Shartan was killed when Andraste was betrayed, but the elves continued to fight, eventually breaking free of the Imperium. The elves claimed the Dales in the south, and settled there, in a land of their own.”

“And everyone lived happily ever after,” Alistair joked. 

“Not quite. The elves lived in the Dales for centuries. They resurrected the worship of their elven gods, and would allow the building of no chantry. This angered the Chantry, and the hostility between the two factions finally broke out in open war. The Chantry says the elves struck first, but I do not know whether to believe it.

“The Chantry declared a holy Exalted March against the elves, named for Andraste’s similar march against Tevinter. During the Exalted March of the Dales, the elven cities were sacked, and the elven state completely dissolved. Some of the elves bitterly accepted their fates, and surrendered to human rule, living in the human cities as second-class citizens.

“But others, still fiercely proud of their heritage, refused to bow to the humans and instead became homeless wanderers. They were the elves of the Dales - the Dalish."

"I suppose people who've spent their entire history fighting are the sort we want on our side against the Blight." Alistair allotted. “I just know something’s going to go wrong eventually.” 

“Didn't look homeless or helpless to me," Oghren said. "Didn’t you see those land boat things?" 

"Aravels," Amell supplied.

"How do you suppose those work in the forest anyway?" Alistair asked. "Do the trees just move aside for them?"

“Sylvans may,” Amell said.

“Right. Creepy. Forget I asked,” Alistair stood and stretched, "Well, I need to use the little soldier’s room, be back in a bit.”

“Don’t go too far,” Amell warned.

“Yes, father,” Alistair called back as he left the clearing in search of underbrush. He navigated his way through a few trees and down a small slope, lost to his thoughts.

It figured the first mission he’d managed to convince Amell to let him join would amount to little more than a hunting trip. His friend was all too eager to leave him behind whenever they were faced with a potentially life-threatening mission. There was a grim practicality to the man that Alistair begrudgingly understood. They were the only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. If something went wrong, it was better it only go wrong for one of them, but just because Alistair understood it didn’t mean he had to like it.

Amell treated him too much like how everyone had treated him his entire life. Like he had to be protected at all costs, but at least Amell did it before he knew the truth of his parentage. Alistair could honestly say Amell hadn’t treated him any differently once he found out the truth. It was a pleasant surprise, not unlike the snap of a broken branch from behind him when he finally felt secure in his privacy. 

“I can hear you, you know,” Alistair said, taking off his helmet. 

“Because I let you,” Leliana said, jogging to catch up and pin him to the nearest tree. She met him with an appreciative stare that still didn’t seem like it could possibly be meant for him. “So much armor. How fast do you think we can get it off?”

“Ah ha- well I- you know - there’s a lot of buckles-”

“You are so cute when you blush.”

“And you’re cute when you- you know-you-”

“I am always cute?” Leliana suggested. “This is what you were going to say, no?”

“Yes, exactly,” Alistair said, “How romantic of me!”

“I love you,” Leliana said. Alistair kissed her. He was getting better at it. The kissing. He knew he was getting better because Leliana had stopped stopping him to tell him he was doing it wrong. If there was one good thing to come out of the Blight, it was her. Her soft lips and soothing hands, the way both fit against his own as if they were meant to find each other, though at the moment neither changed the fact that…

“I really do have to go to the privy.” 

“Well that is a fine thing to say to a declaration of love!” Leliana huffed.

“Leliana - love of my life - my beautiful bard - my radiant rose - I really do have to go to the privy.”

“Go on then, but I won’t forget this.”

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Alistair said, donning his helmet again. 

Leliana vanished back into the trees, towards camp. Alistair hadn’t gone far, but given her arrival, felt like he should probably go a little further. He picked a random direction, and headed off in search of a suitable bush to turn into the little templar’s room. 

This was it. The final treaty. Once they had the support of the Dalish, the only thing left was Loghain. Hopefully by the time they found this Witherfang and killed it, Eamon would wake up from his coma, rally the nobility, and win the civil war so they could finally face the Blight and the archdemon behind it. Then Eamon could take the throne, and Alistair and Amell could head to Highever to hold a proper funeral for Duncan. And after that… he and Leliana could travel the world together recruiting for the Wardens. Happily ever after, right after the Blight. 

Alistair cleaned himself up and headed back towards camp. 

And continued to head back towards camp, long after it seemed like he should have reached it.

“Hello?” Alistair called out. “Amell? Leliana?”

Silence answered. 

Alistair doubled back to his bush, and tried to take in his surroundings. There were trees. And more trees. “Hello?” Alistair called again. “Amell? Guys!?”

More silence. Somewhere off in the distance, a brook babbled to itself, and a bird took flight. “Alright… so… I suppose that tree looks a little familiar…” Alistair set off again in a different direction, but no camp awaited him. And this time when he doubled back, neither did his bush.

“Oh boy…”

Alistair set off again, and again, and each time couldn’t tell if he was heading forwards, backwards, or in circles. Each tree looked more familiar as the last, and only the occasional rock gave him any indication he’d actually moved. Any semblance of a path had long since vanished, swallowed up by pinecones and conifer leaves. The forest stretched for leagues in every direction. Great firs and cypress blackened the sky, while their roots made a labyrinth of the forest floor, so cavernous Alistair could sense the darkspawn they drew into their depths.

So far, none had taken notice of him, but he doubted his luck would hold all night. “Hello!?” Alistair called again. 

Something answered him. Like someone whispering just out of range. Alistair turned towards it, and saw nothing but trees. More trees, it seemed like, than had been there the last time he looked. “Hello?” Alistair called again.

Wind, probably, creaking through the boughs, or darkspawn, echoing from the forest’s caverns. Nothing he hadn’t heard or fought before. Alistair unhooked his shield from his back, drew his sword from his scabbard, and pressed on. “Amell!?”

The something came back. This time, Alistair was certain it was whispering. Unintelligible and guttural, like how he imagined a darkspawn might talk if they could. He turned back around, but the way he’d come from was blocked. A tree stood where none had moments prior, the ground upturned as if it had somehow just planted itself. 

“Okay… Either I’m going crazy or you just moved,” Alistair decided. The tree gave no answer.

“Crazy it is then,” Alistair decided. He must have been. Trees didn’t follow people, but these trees certainly seemed like they were. It was almost as if they were herding him somewhere, but where? The only thing before him was roots, twisted into massive caverns that might have led all the way down to the Deep Roads, and there was no way Alistair was heading inside them. 

Which left… left. A small cliff face seemed climbable, if crumbling. Alistair made for it, and the whispering stopped. He stopped along with it, but the trees hadn’t moved. Which meant it wasn’t coming from them. 

Too late, Alistair noticed the shadow atop the cliff. The thing dove, black as ichor, and landed heavy on his shield arm, knocking him off his feet and sending his sword flying. It wasn’t a wolf - or a man - or even something in between. Golden eyes shone with malicious purpose as it snapped at him over the edge of his shield, row upon row of dripping fangs stained with the blood of old kills. Alistair shoved, frantic, but his arm was pinned with its weight. 

The thing snarled back, thrashing atop him and trying desperately to tear through his armor. It dug at his shield with its foreclaws, splintering it in half, numb to every kick and shove Alistair threw at it. He managed to free his sword arm, and punched, but the thing caught his hand in its jaws and crunched. Teeth shattered against the silverite, but its fangs reached far enough to catch him above his gauntlet, and pierce the leather at the joints.

Alistair screamed, and the thing wailed, finally rolling off and away.

Alistair scrambled backwards across the forest floor, kicking up leaves and rocks in his haste to reclaim his sword, but by the time he had it in his hands and turned, the thing was gone, and the forest was silent again.

Morrigan was back by the time he found his way back to camp. Tents had been pitched, and something that smelled like rabbit was roasting atop the fire. Everyone was gathered around it, and looked to be in the midst of an argument his arrival interrupted.

“Finally,” Oghren said, “That must have been a royal piss. Get it? Eheheh.”

“At long last,” Morrigan said, “Finally figure out how everything works down there, did you?” 

“Yes, haha, thank you all for your concern,” Alistair dropped his sword by his tent, “I'm going to change.”

“Are you alright, Alistair?” Amell called after him.

“I’m fine,” Alistair called back, tying the tent flaps behind him.

He was fine. Of course he was fine. Alistair took off his helmet and left gauntlet. The right was stuck. Blood and saliva had adhered the leather straps to his skin above his elbow, and had to be peeled free. Two punctures from the creature’s fangs bubbled with fresh blood when the gauntlet finally came loose. It wasn’t pretty, but it was far from a gaping wound. Alistair had had worse.

He hadn’t had worse from a werewolf.

Alistair took off the rest of his armor, set a poultice to the wound, and wrapped it. The sleeve of his tunic was of a convenient length to cover the bite, not that it needed covering, because it wasn’t a big deal. It was just a small puncture. It wasn’t a real bite. And the thing he fought might not have even been a real werewolf. Even if it was, they hadn’t seen any proof of Zathrian’s claims that those who were bitten became werewolves. They’d just seen some sick elves, who couldn’t be healed by magic. That could have meant anything. 

Alistair emerged from his tent, and joined the group by the fire. “So where are we at?”

“Morrigan spotted some elven ruins to the east,” Amell filled him in, breaking off a leg of the rabbit for him, “It’s possible the werewolves could be using them as their lair.”

“Great. Sounds great.” Alistair took a bite of the rabbit - unseasoned but somehow still flavorful. Because he liked rabbit. Because rabbit was a normal thing to like. “So.. hey, what do we know about werewolves anyway?”

“What’s there to know?” Oghren belched. “Stick ‘em with the pointy bit like everything else.”

“They’re just demons,” Amell explained. “Wolves, possessed by rage, no different from the abominations we faced at the Circle. You should be able to smite them as easily as before.” 

“And the curse…?” Alistair pressed.

“I’ve never heard of demons spreading a curse. Perhaps it’s the Blight?” 

“Or perhaps the Dalish spoke true,” Morrigan said, “And these werewolves are no demons, but something else.”

“Like what?” Alistair asked.

“How am I to know?” Morrigan asked.

“Great. Very helpful,” Alistair rolled his eyes, and shifted to face Leliana, “What do you think? Do you know anything about werewolves?”

“I know the tale of Dane and the Werewolf, would you like to hear it?” 

“Delightful. A bedtime story. If you will excuse me, I think I’ll tuck myself in first.” Morrigan tossed the bones of her share of rabbit into the fire, and left to her tent. 

“I’ll give it a listen,” Oghren said, taking a drink from his hip flagon and passing it to Amell. 

Alistair had no idea how Amell could trust whatever was inside it, but their fearless leader took a drink and tipped his head to Leliana. “Go ahead.” 

“Let me sing of heroes and honor lost and found,  
Of monsters and men in all forms,  
Of Dane, hunter without peer,  
Feared by the forests of Ferelden,  
Who one autumn morn spied  
A hart of pure white in beam of warmest sun,  
A prize for huntsman’s spear.

Through the greenwood they ran, hart and hunter  
Bringing the stag to spear at last in a long-forgotten grove,  
Heedless that the chase had waked a hunger in the golden wood,  
A werewolf, a creature with mind of man,  
Lured by the hunt and come forth to lay claim  
To the hart as rightful tribute  
Drawn by the scent of cooling blood.

In the silence, the two hunters held.  
Dane, spear-armed against the wolf with all his brood,  
Knew with sinking heart he was lost  
Steeled for the winding roads of the Fade  
Then the best spoke, human-like in voice,  
“You have taken this stag from my woods, and my pack  
But nothing comes without a cost.”

The wolf pack circle, ever closer, and he  
Who felled boars and bears with his bright blade  
Knew fear. They spoke his name in roars  
Like gravestones, offering a beast’s bargain.  
“Die here, huntsman, alone  
And forgotten, or take my place amongst the wolves  
As I take your place amongst man.”

Thus was a bargain struck,  
And Dane the wolf pack served in wolfen form,  
As the werewolf to his family sped, as Dane,  
One year and a day all told.  
But some things cannot be repent.  
Some coinage cannot be unspent,  
When hearts are wagered, a fissure rent.”

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take away from that, to be honest,” Alistair said. “So Dane turns into a werewolf? Does that mean the curse is real?” 

“Let’s not find out,” Amell suggested. 

That night, Alistair slept uneasy, and dreamt of harts and the wolves who hunted them, and the trees that moved to shelter them. He woke to Leliana shaking him, calling his name in a panic.

“What? What is it?” Alistair demanded, struggling out of his bedroll and groping blindly for his sword.

“You were screaming,” Leliana explained, pressing the back of her palm to his forehead. Her hand was refreshingly cool, which was less of a comfort than it should have been, “Do you have a fever?”

“I’m fine,” Alistair pulled her hand away, but the more awake he became, the less fine he felt. His tunic was soaked with sweat, and the rabbit wasn’t sitting well with him. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You did not wake me,” Leliana promised, “I was watching you sleep.”

Alistair dragged his thumb over his mouth, and whipping away morning drool, “I’m sorry for that too, then,” He decided. 

“Did you know your eyelids flutter when you dream? And you have such pretty eyelashes.”

“My eyelashes?”

“Mmhmm, they’re like little butterflies… I want to catch them and keep them in a jar.”

“You’re teasing. You are teasing, right? Please be teasing.”

“I feel safe in your arms. Safe, loved, and accepted. I want you to feel the same. Not plagued by nightmares of darkspawn.”

“It comes with the territory, I’m afraid,” Alistair pulled her into a hug, “I’m sure I’ll feel better after a bath. Did we camp near a brook?”

“To the north,” Leliana kissed his cheek. “Should I come with you? I don’t want you getting lost again.”

“Who said I got lost?” 

“Amell. He thinks it is something to do with the Veil. That some magic in the forest is playing tricks on us all, and making it hard to know where we are going.”

“That makes sense, I suppose… Maybe no bath, then.”

“You smell good to me,” Leliana assured him, “And you look good too.”

“Always a good thing to hear from a pretty girl. I’ll take it over darkspawn anyday.” 

“How glad I am to rank so high on your list. Come then, the others will be up soon and we have a big day ahead of us. Werewolves await with bated breath for you to put them out of their misery!”

“Oh… right. Blasted werewolves,” Alistair forced a grin, and got dressed. 

Breakfast was uneventful, and they set off in search of the ruins Morrigan had spotted the night before. They shouldn’t have been hard to find. ‘East’ didn’t leave much room for interpretation, and yet no matter how far east they seemed to go, no ruins appeared. No ruins meant no Witherfang, and no Witherfang meant no cure to the werewolf curse. Alistair broke from Leliana’s side after a few hours walking to join Amell at the forefront of their group.

“Hey,”

“Hey,” Amell raised an eyebrow at him, “Where’s your shield?”

“I uh- I lost it. So, what’s going on? Where are these ruins?”

“To the east.”

“And we’re going?”

“As east as the forest lets us.”

“What do you mean ‘lets us’?”

“I mean there’s something wrong here, and it’s more than just the sylvans moving. We’ll walk for a time, and then suddenly we’re not headed east. I can’t explain it, but there’s some sort of force keeping us from getting to the ruins.”

“So, what are we going to do to get past it?” 

“I’m not sure. We might need to head back to the clan and see if the Keeper has some sort of magic that will let us keep going.”

“Back?” Alistair's throat closed up on him, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the ache in his injured arm, “Like, all the way back? We can’t go back! We’re at least a day’s journey from the camp. The elves will have died by then.” 

“According to Zathrian, they don’t die, they turn into werewolves,” Amell corrected him, “And Zathrian believes he can cure them if we get him Witherfang’s heart.”

“We can’t go back!” Alistair snapped.

“... what would you have us do instead?” Amell asked.

“I don’t know, you’re the fearless leader. Think of something!” 

Barkspawn growled for his raised voice, and Alistair frowned at him, “You hush!”

“Alistair-”

“Don’t Alistair me! We made a promise that we would help these people, and we have to find a way to keep it! You said the forest was magic, right? Well you’re magic! Use some sort of ritual or something and-”

“Alistair look out!” Amell yelled, a shockwave of magic rippling out from him and knocking Alistair off his feet. It also knocked over the werewolves that burst forth from the trees. “Oghren, to me! Watch for their teeth!” 

The battle was joined. Alistair rolled to his feet and drew his sword. There were a dozen werewolves, at least, and they had them surrounded, for all the good it did them. The beasts had been frozen mid-charge by Amell and Morrigan’s magic. Two were already peppered with Leliana’s arrows. 

Alistair stared at one. It hung, suspended in mid-air, muzzle open mid-growl… or maybe mid-scream. Three arrows protruded from its breast, blood pulsing from the wounds to the frantic beat of its dying heart. Its once silvery pelt was painted a fetid crimson by the time Morrigan’s spell waned. The beast -... the creature, collapsed with a whimper, and lay in the grass, watching him until its eyes went dim. 

No sooner had it died that another charged over its corpse towards him. Alistair drew on a holy smite, righteous fire lashing out at the werewolf and washing harmless over it. Alistair side-stepped the creature’s madly slashing claws, and spun to slash his blade across its back. The werewolf howled, a desperate, keening sound more man than wolf or demon, and kept running out into the forest, swallowed by the safety of the sylvans. 

As quickly as it began, it was over. Five of the werewolves lay dead at their feet. The rest had retreated. 

“We are victorious,” Morrigan noted.

“Any bites?” Amell called out.

“None here, Maker be praised,” Leliana said.

“All good,” Oghren agreed, kicking the nearest werewolf over. It rolled a handful of feet before colliding with a rock, and flopping onto its back, tongue lulling from its open maw. “That’s a lot of teeth,” Oghren noted. 

“People teeth,” Alistair said. “They’re not demons. I couldn’t smite them.”

“... So the elves really turned into these things, huh?” Oghren toed the werewolves, “Heheh… walking on the wild side.” 

“Don’t you think you’re being a little disrespectful?” Alistair asked. 

“They are dead,” Morrigan noted, “What is there to respect? Besides, these pelts would fetch a fine price in any city.” 

“They’re people!” Alistair was aghast. “You can’t skin people!”

“I beg to differ,” Morrigan said. 

“We’re not skinning them!” Alistair said.

“The forest let them pass,” Amell noted. “It might let us do the same if we made use of the pelts.”

“Or - or - !” Alistair body-blocked Oghren when he took out his skinning knife, “It might be furious at us for _skinning people_! This is a bad idea! Does no one else think this is a bad idea? Leliana?”

“... perhaps if we had a small funeral after?” Leliana suggested.

Oghren shouldered past him, and stabbed the knife down into the chest of the werewolf fletched with Leliana’s arrows. Alistair’s stomach turned. “I’m going to be sick,” Alistair ran to the nearest shrub and retched. The bread and cheese he’d had for breakfast upended into a porridge in the dirt, and the sight of it made him vomit a second time. If the rabbit he’d had for dinner joined it, Alistiar couldn’t identify it. 

Leliana came up behind him to rub his back, “You have a kind heart-”

“How could you go along with this?” Alistair whirled on her, “Don’t you care about who those people used to be!?”

“Of course I care-”

“Like you cared about Marjolaine?” 

“... That was beneath you. You know what she did to me. Why she needed to die.”

“Amell is wearing off on you. You’re different. Harder.”

“And what if I am?” Leliana squared her shoulders, “Perhaps you should be too.”

Regret hung heavier on his shoulders than the pelt as they continued. Leliana didn’t deserve his anger, but she’d gotten it all the same. The pelts worked, and east became east again. The ruins loomed, a vast marble structure vaguely reminiscent of the imperial highway. Grand buttresses and massive archways were overgrown with all manner of foliage, swallowed up by the forest and its denizens. The entryway opened up to a massive stairwell that descended into darkness.

“So… elven ruins, underground?” Alistair noted. “Did the elves live underground just like the dwarves?”

“Everyone’d live underground if they knew what was good for them,” Oghren grunted. 

“They have a Tevinter make about them,” Morrigan noted. “Though filled with elven trappings. Tis very odd.”

“Let’s just find Witherfang.” Amell said.

For all they searched, Witherfang was nowhere to be found in the ruins. Instead, they found spiders, the undead, and a handful of demons, none of which brought them any closer to ending the curse. 

“So this was all a waste of time,” Alistair said. The ruins dead-ended into a library, and unless the books were about where to find werewolves, Alistair couldn’t have cared less. He whirled on Morrigan, “Did you know about this? Did you do this on purpose!?” 

“Yes, I have deliberately delayed our quest, as part of my nefarious plan to waste my own time,” Morrigan rolled her eyes, turning to Amell, who emerged from one of the bookstacks turning something over in his hands, “What is that you have there?” 

“A phylactery,” Amell revealed a small vial filled with blood, akin to the ones Alistair had seen during his training as a templar. They were used to track mages, though this one seemed different somehow. “... Can’t you hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything,” Leliana said.

“Boss, you sure you should be messing with that?” Oghren asked.

“... I have to free him.” 

“Free who?” Alistair asked

“Wait a moment-!” Morrigan reached out, too late. Amell uncorked the vial, and the blood surged forth, seeping into his eyes, his nose, his mouth before it exploded, knocking them all backwards. 

Alistair climbed to his feet and ran to Amell’s side. His friend lay on the ground, unconscious or dead, and Alistair felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Wake up! Amell - come on - wake up!” He yelled, shaking him. 

Amell groaned, and Alistiar breathed a sigh of relief. “Look, maybe, just maybe, just to spice things up, for once we don’t mess with every strange magical artifact we come across?”

“Ma nuvenin,” Amell said.

“... what?”

“Ma nuvenin, ir abelas,” Amell said.

“... Uh,” Oghren said. “You okay, boss?” 

“Ir eth, ma enfenim?” 

“Oh boy. Am I drunk, or is he not speaking the common tongue?”

“It sounds like elvish,” Leliana noted.

“Why is he speaking elvish?” Alistair demanded.

Morrigan retrieved the now empty vial from where Amell had dropped it, and ran her thumb over what Alistair assumed was an engraving of some sort. “This was an elven phylactery. Several centuries old, by my guess. I hope whatever deal he made with the creature within was worth it.”

“Ar glandival dithara dirth dirth’ena enasalin suledin,” Amell said.

“Great, thanks, that clears everything up,” Alistair stood up and started pacing “Is he possessed? Did some old elf possess him?”

“I do not believe so, though I suppose it could be possible,” Morrigan said. 

“Maker, now what are we supposed to do?” Alistair muttered. 

“Fen lasa ghilan.” Amell said, patting Barkspawn. The mabarai snuffled happily at his armor, oblivious to his sudden loss of language. 

“We - can’t - understand - you,” Alistair enunciated, though by Amell’s frown he was willing to guess Amell understood him just fine. The mage patted Barkspawn again, this time removing the werewolf pelt he wore to hold it beneath Barkspawn’s nose. The mabari sniffed twice, and barked, circling the library once before stopping to wait for them by the exit.

“That’s your plan?” Alistair guessed, “Hope that Barkspawn can track the werewolves for us?” 

“Nuvenin,” Amell said. 

“Works for me,” Oghren shrugged, hefting his axe over his shoulder and heading to the exit. 

“This can’t be happening,” Alistair said. 

“This is not a permanent state of being for you, I hope?” Morrigan asked.

“Mir renan sahlin melana, ar glandival,” Amell said.

“Hmm,” Morrigan hummed, as if she could actually understand anything Amell was saying. 

They followed Barkspawn out of the ruins to Maker knew where. They were doomed. They wouldn’t get anywhere without Amell. Alistair couldn’t lead them. Not through the forest, not into battle, not against the archdemon. “We’re doomed,” Alistair muttered. “You do realize we’re doomed, don’t you? How are we supposed to do anything without Amell?”

“We are doing something right now,” Morrigan pointed out.

“Have faith, Alistair,” Leliana said, “I am sure he will be able to speak common again soon. Perhaps we have only to teach him. Amell, can you say hello? Hello? Repeat after me, hello.”

“Aneth ara,” Amell said.

“... Close,” Leliana said.

“That was not close!” Alistair groaned. 

“We could head back to the clan,” Leliana suggested, “They might know something of what avails him.” 

“No,” Alistair said.

“No?” Leliana asked.

“No,” Alistair repeated, “We can’t head back. We have to find Witherfang before it’s too late… for the elves.”

“How noble,” Morrigan scoffed. 

“It is,” Leliana agreed, though her tone was much gentler, and Alistair hoped it meant she forgave his earlier outburst. “We will find Witherfang. I know it.”

They did not find Witherfang. Day turned to night, and they made camp a second time. Dinner was hardtack and jerky, though Alistair couldn’t bring himself to finish the hardtack. When Amell retired to his tent for the night, Alistair followed him.

Amell glanced up at his entrance, red eyes catching on the fire outside. Not for the first time, Alistair couldn’t help thinking the red was appropriate for a blood mage who apparently couldn’t resist the allure of the forbidden. “Garas quenathra?” 

“Yep, gar ass queen the,” Alistair said, taking a seat at the edge of Amell’s bedroll. “Look, since you can't tell anyone else right now, I have to tell you something." Taking off his gauntlet, Alistair rolled up his sleeve to reveal his injured arm. It didn’t look to be healing, if the putrid stain that had seeped through the bandage was any gauge. "... I got bit. By a you-know-what. It's probably nothing, it's teeth barely grazed me, but I thought you should know."

Amell launched into an elvish tirade. At least, Alistair assumed it was a tirade. It certainly felt like he deserved one. "Let me guess - you told me so," Alistair cut him off, and reaffixed his gauntlet. He’d meant to end it there, but something in him forced him to continue, "I insisted on coming along, and look what happened. You're always saying one of us has to stay behind in case something happens to the other, but why does that person always have to be me?

"I don't know if you're protecting me, or risking yourself, but I’m sick of it. And you know what else? I’m sick of how everything always works out for you! I’m sick of how you make everything work out for you with blood magic and demons. I’m sick of the mockery you’re making of the Grey Wardens. Did you even stop to think what would happen to the rest of us before you made a deal with whatever was in that phylactery!? 

“Of course you didn’t. Because it offered you power. I don’t even know what power, I just know it was power! Duncan would have been disgusted with the way you just-.. you just-.. do anything to stop the Blight,” Alistair sighed, and stared at the wound on his arm. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry - I’m just-... I don’t know. Angry, I guess.”

Amell said something in elvish. Something that would have made him feel better, Alistair was sure, if only he could understand it. “Sure wish we’d taken some lessons from those Silent Sisters right now,” Alistair sighed when Amell finally gave up on whatever he was trying to say. “Look -.... Don’t tell Leliana. I mean, you can't, but when you can, don’t. I don’t want her to worry. We honestly don’t know if anything is going to happen. Maybe the curse isn’t real, or maybe it only works on elves, or maybe the taint makes me immune. 

“But if you-know-what happens… don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. You'll find Witherfang, and you'll kill it, and Zathrian will cure the curse and I'll show back up at camp in my name-day best. And the next time we have a mission come up, I’ll know better than to come along.”

Alistair turned to leave, and Amell caught his good arm, and pulled him back into a hug. “Tel’din’anshiral, falon. Ar nadas halani ma.” 

“Thanks,” Alistair said, “I think.” 

They didn’t find Witherfang the next day, or the day after that. Eating churned his stomach, and thinking churned his mind. The longer they went without finding Witherfang, the more frustrated he became. He couldn’t sleep - and when he did, his nightmares woke him in a sweat so cold it chilled him to the bone. His wound had festered, and at this point, he feared what lay in wait beneath the bandage. 

And yet, he didn’t fear it as much as he feared himself. His outburst at Amell was the first of many, and he directed them everywhere. From Morrigan, to Oghren, to Leliana, to himself. No matter what he claimed, Amell wasn’t the one Duncan would have been disgusted with. Alistair was the real disgrace to the Wardens, but at least he wouldn’t be one much longer. On the third night, he left.

Alistair wasn’t sure where he was going, save that he was going away. He left behind his armor, his pelt, and his weapons, and wandered through the forest in a fevered dream of harts, wolves, and trees that ushered him down into their roots, where he became something else.

The transformation was agony - as if every bone in his body had broken. His jaw snapped, gums splitting as teeth turned to fangs. His fingers cracked, nails ripping from beneath his skin and curling into claws. His fever turned to fire, skin burning as hair sprouted from his spine and spread to cover his entire body. It was pain beyond measure, a pain so blinding it erased everything from him. His name, his memories, his will to live.

A sound not quite whimper nor howl escaped him, as he lay curled beneath the roots of the great sylvan, and seemed to summon… help.

A werewolf slid down into the cave with him, churning up dirt and bits of bark in its descent. A brindle, with golden eyes that seemed somehow soft. It sniffed at his wound, and he growled a warning. The brindle ignored him, creeping closer, and he snapped at it. 

A mistake. The brindle surged forward with a snarl, locking its jaws around his neck until he whimpered a surrender. The brindle licked the wound, then, and curled up beside him in the dark. Somehow, he slept, and dreamt not of harts or wolves or darkspawn, but of the forest, and the shelter it provided.

He woke as if on fire. His blood seemed to boil through his veins, making his skin roil and ripping an agonized wail from his throat. Dragging his back along the roots and scratching at his fur brought no reprieve from the curse. It was his veins. He had to be free of it. He had to tear it out. He chewed at his wrist, when a weight slammed into him, knocking his arm from his mouth. The same weight kept him pinged, preventing him from ending his agony.

It was a werewolf. A new one. There were three now. The brindle, a blue merle, and a plain brown. He hated them. For the pain, for stopping him from ending it, for ignoring the snarls that spilled from his lips as they pawed in circles around him. 

"Welcome, brother," The red growled. "The pain will not subside, but you can live with it. The Lady will help you."

“I don’t - want - to live with it,” He managed, somehow. 

“You will,” The red promised. “We will help you. You are our brother now.”

“Do you remember your name?” The merle asked.

He tried, but there was nothing. Only the agony of the curse. “No.”

“Pick a new one,” The brindle suggested, “I am Longhowl.”

“Why?” He asked.

“Because my howl is long,” Longhowl explained.

“Why… a name?” He clarified.

“To have a name is to have a self,” The red explained. “You must have a self, or you will only have the curse. I am Swiftrunner.”

He tried, but no name came to him. His eyes darted across the confines of the small root cave, and settled on the arm he’d tried to chew through. There was a scar at his elbow, two pinpoints, as if left by fangs. “... Fang,” He decided.

“A good name,” Swiftrunner said. “Welcome, Fang.”

“Welcome Fang,” The other werewolves echoed. 

The werewolves led him through the forest, to ancient ruins overgrown by the forest and heavy with the scent of more of their kind. Just entering the den was soothing. It carried the promise of life, of survival, of more than just the curse. Werewolves relaxed in beds of fur and foliage, fought over half-finished kills, and chewed idly on the leathery skins they left behind. A few approached at his entrance to introduce themselves, and ask after his new name and old life.

It seemed to matter a great deal whether he had been human or elf, but Fang honestly couldn’t say. “Why do we hate elves?” Fang asked.

“Because they have cursed us,” Swiftrunner explained. “Their leader Zathrian created the curse for the actions of our ancestors… so now we spread the curse to his people! So he must end the curse to save them!”

They descended deeper into the ruins, far below the ground, where roots overgrown the marble structures and gave way to a subterranean forest, lit by glowing lichen and glowworms. Walking amidst the trees was a woman neither human or wolf. Her skin was like new bark, roots shown at her joints, and her hair was tangled with vines. She smelled like the forest, but her eyes gleamed with all the powers of the Fade. 

“Welcome home, Swiftrunner,” The Lady said, emerging to stroke Swiftrunner’s cheek, “Who is this?”

“Fang,” Swiftrunner explained. “We found him in the forest.”

“Welcome, Fang,” The Lady said, turning the same favor upon him. Her touch soothed the agony roiling beneath his flesh, and for a moment he had a glimpse of something beyond the pain. A human fletched with gryphon feathers. A woman borne of sunburst emblems. A mage with blood red eyes. Then it was gone. “You are home now. Go and meet your family.”

He wasn’t sure why family was important to him, but the words spoke to a part of himself he couldn’t remember. He wanted a family, almost as much as he wanted an end to the curse and the suffering it brought. His fellow werewolves welcomed him into their den. They brought him on patrols through the forest, on hunts for hart, and rabbit, and deer, and eventually, elves.

“I want to help,” Fang told Swiftrunner, some days later. 

“Then you will help,” Swiftrunner agreed. 

He joined Longhowl on his next hunt, following the most recent report of the watch-wolves. The group was easy to find. They were loud, and they were many, though there was only one elf in their midst. The rest were human, dwarven, qunari, dog, and one made of living stone. Their group of werewolves waited in the cover of sylvans as the humans descended into one of the forests' many valleys. “The watch-wolves spoke true,” Longhowl whispered to him, “The Dalish send humans to repay us for our attacks, to put us in our place. What bitter irony.”

“They will die,” Fang snarled.

“They will! With me, brothers and sisters!” Longhowl roared, leaping from cover and down into the valley.

Fang followed, claws churning up the ground beneath him as he charged down into the valley, eyes on the elf. He was in the center of the group, but one leap would clear the frontline and bring Fang down on him. He tensed his legs to lunge, when all once-

‘Stop!’ The command reverberated through his entire being. Fang froze, eyes twitching in his skull as his body refused to obey his mind. All around him, his fellow werewolves had frozen. He snarled, saliva dripping from his fangs at the scent of the elf, so close, so horribly close, enraged at the one who had stopped him. 

It was a human, at the front of the procession. Chains of blood spun out from his hand to ensorcell the entire pack, while his companions continued to charge. “Hold!” The mage yelled. “Oghren - Shale - Stand down! Find Alistair! I can’t hold them for long.” 

“For what?” A female mage laughed, leaning on her staff as she eyed the pack. She smelled of the wilds, of death and magic, “Another pelt?”

“Over my dead body,” Another female hissed. She wore leather armor that smelled of wyverns, and bore a quiver across her back to accompany the bow within her hands.

“This seems an incentive,” The mage hummed.

“Barkspawn, go, find him,” The leader ordered the hound at his side. The mabari let out a happy bark, and ran into the pack, sniffing eagerly at Fang’s companions. 

“... they all look the same,” An older mage noted, a tinge of resigned despair to her voice. “Even their eyes… Leliana, dear… The spell will not last forever.” 

"We have to try!” Leliana snapped, “Can you not - can you not paralyze them after Amell’s spell wears off?”

“Possibly,” The younger mage agreed, “If I had the desire to. I do not.”

“Alistair!?” Leliana called out, running into the twitching pack, “Alistair? Alistair, where are you!?” 

“Help her,” The leader ordered. 

“What are we even to look for?” The stone creature wondered, “All flesh creatures look the same to me.”

The rest of the group wandered obediently into the pack, poking and prodding at Fang and his brothers and sisters. Eventually, Leliana stopped in front of him, her hands running over his face, his neck, and catching on his collar. “Here!” Leliana screamed, lifting the collar to display the small emblem that hung from it, “He’s here! It’s his mother’s amulet! Alistair, my love, I am here.”

“Shale, grab him.” The leader ordered.

The golem wrapped its massive arms around him, and carried him away from his brothers and sisters as the spell ended. Fang snarled, flailing against the creature holding him, but it was made of stone, and his claws and teeth didn’t so much as chip it. The thing held him tight against its chest while the humans cut down his brothers and sisters, and there was nothing Fang could do to help.

Leliana ran to him when the battle was over, babbling of her love for Alistair. Fang scrabbled to try to free himself from the golem, snapping madly at the hands she stretched towards him.

“Bastards,” Fang snarled, scratching madly at the golem holding him, “Die! Die you bastards! Suffer as we have suffered!"

"Do stop moving or I may squish it," The golem warned him.

"Do you not recognize me?" Leliana asked, crestfallen.

"Let’s just focus on curing him, Leliana," The leader said, steering her away from him.

The rest of the humans ignored him after the battle. They set up camp, and spoke amongst themselves while Fang raged against his stone prison. He tired, come nightfall, and hung limp in the golem's arms when the leader finally approached him. There was something in his eyes that was familiar, though Fang couldn’t place it. Fang growled at him, but he didn't appear intimidated. “Earlier, you said you had suffered. How have you suffered?”

“The curse,” Fang wailed, “It burns. It burns away everything. Always, it burns."

"Everything?" The leader asked, "Like your memories?" 

"Everything," Fang agreed.

"We’re trying to cure it. Do you know how?"

"I do not trust you!"

"My name is Amell," The leader explained. "Your name is Alistair. We were friends, before you were cursed. Trust me,"

"Empty words," Fang growled.

"Either you trust me of your own free will or against it," Amell warned him, rolling up his sleeve to reveal arms littered with the scars of the same blood magic that had killed Fang's pack.

"The Lady would know," Fang relented. "I can take you to her… if you promise not to kill any more of my brothers and sister."

"I promise," Amell said. "... do you truly remember nothing?"

Fang thought back to the few flashes he'd had of his past since his transformation. Some of the humans seemed familiar, like the remnants of an age old dream. Whoever they were to Alistair, they weren't to Fang. "Not enough."

"... if we can't cure the curse, what do you want me to do for you?"

"... end it." 

The next morning, Fang led them back to the den to meet the Lady of the Forest, who tasked them with retrieving Zathrian and bringing him back to her to end the curse. Amell agreed, and the Dalish Keeper was brought to the ruins for a parley that ended in bloodshed. On pain of death, the Keeper was convinced to end the curse, an end that also brought about his own and the end of the Lady of the Forest. 

The former-werewolves accompanied them back to Soldier’s Peak, where they began their new lives in service of the Grey Wardens, and Alistair remembered he was one. A handful of apologies and assurances later, and he excused himself to the ramparts, where he sat on the edge of the wall watching the comings and goings of the Drydens, the Wolves, and their small group of heroes as they moved about the keep. 

Alistair wasn’t sure whether to blame the curse, the taint, his bloodline, or maybe just where he was sitting, but something about it all made him feel far away from everyone. After a few hours, Amell found him like that, and came to sit beside him. 

“How are you feeling?” Amell asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Alistair asked, “What happened to the whole… elvish thing?”

“I fixed it,” Amell said. 

“I noticed. What was all that about, though?”

“There was a spirit trapped in the phylactery. It offered me arcane knowledge in exchange for its freedom. The knowledge just happened to be its memories. It took me a while to remember which ones were mine.”

“Losing your memories, huh?” Alistair whistled, “That I can definitely understand.” 

“I’m sure you can, Fang.” 

“Har, har. We’re never telling anyone else about that - you know that right?”

“The gold eyes will be hard to hide,” Amell noted.

“No one really paid attention to my eyes before,” Alistair waved him off. “As long as they’re still in my skull, I think I’m okay.” 

“So… flying dogs from the Anderfels doesn’t sound so far-fetched anymore,” Amell noted.

“You’re telling me,” Alistair grinned. “I think I vastly overestimated how much fun it would be to be raised by wolves.” 

“What was it like?” Amell asked.

“Aside from the constant and excruciating pain?” 

“Aside from that.”

“... Honestly? It was nice. It felt like… having a family. Not that I’d know.”

Amell wrapped a companionable arm about his shoulders, “You do have a family, Alistair.”

“... Yeah… Yeah, I suppose I do.”


End file.
